


Lost In Fear

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Biting, Blood and Gore, Bruises, Dark Imagery, Dd/Lg dynamics, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Horror, Insomnia, Jealousy, Monsters, Nightmares, Past Violence, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Visceral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "Nash drives into you like he's in a fight for survival and the uneven hitch of his breathing is indication enough that he's just as close to falling as you are. He rolls his hips and curses like the words leaving his mouth are sacred in existence. He growls deep in his chest and a note of something honeyed spills up the dark of his throat. His fingers are losing traction, sliding across your hip, and the makeshift fist in your hair turns loose." Nash is the only thing that keeps your nightmares at bay, so when he leaves for a basketball tournament, you're forced to deal with them on your own. Things don't go well and Nash notices.
Relationships: Nash Gold Jr./Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	Lost In Fear

The ground shifts beneath your feet as you continue down a long path veiled by shadows and long-reaching branches. The wind is cold and cutting, leaving you as tattered as the white fabric clinging to your skin in loose shreds. There's a scream in the distance that tears through the trees, high-pitched and desperate. You want to track the sound, to offer help in any way you can but you know it's futile. You've already tried and failed multiple times, the results of your defeat left in the nooses swaying from the thick branches far behind you.

You tell yourself that it's not your fault but the guilt is as heavy on your conscience as the black clouds above are with rain. You try to calm your racing heart but it's an impossible feat when you're spinning in the devil's grip. You take a deep breath but the stale oxygen and fruity odor of human decomposition burn your nostrils.

You step on something sharp that slices through the bottom of your foot as though you're made of butter. You hiss and jump back reflexively, limping to avoid direct contact with the fresh wound. You press your toes into the spongy earth and inspect the ground for the root of your injury. A broken bone stands out against the dark night, bright white save for the fresh crimson stain left by your blood. You glower at the porcelain fragment before kicking it away from you and into the stand of looming trees.

A low growl sounds from the shadows and the desire to proceed is forced to stillness. You hold your breath and slant your gaze in the direction of the sound. You want to find the source of the threatening snarl as much as you don't, but it's too dark to see beyond what's right in front of you.

A bright flash of lightning breaks across the sky and a murder of crows beat their wings against the treetops as they fly off into the night. You're fully aware, at that moment, that you have no concept of what creatures are in your company. You rub your hands together in an attempt to stave off the dismal darkness that wraps around you in the shape of a chill. Thunder purrs into resonance and shakes the atmosphere, and it appears that the vibration has awoken the somnolent clouds because inky droplets begin to fall from the sky.

The heavy bracts of dead plant life catch on your feet as you step forward. The night has already become enveloped in a hazy, thick brume that moves like smoke and hangs like disembodied spirits. It compromises your visibility completely and despite how ineffectual it might be, you try to drive the fog away with a wave of your hand.

A twig cracks nearby and you immediately stall like a pendulum frozen in time. Another splash of lightning paints the sky and it lends you enough time to make out the ominous creature standing mere feet in front of you. It resembles a wolf, though it's taller in stature and it looks as if it hasn't eaten in weeks despite the blood dripping from its maw. Sharp bones jut out of its rotting flesh and dirt cakes its matted fur.

You take a slow step backward, and you don't have to see to know that the creature has moved with you. Its razor-like claws cut through the soil and decayed leaves. Its eyes shift from yellow to red to black, the only indication of its juxtaposition without the aid of lightning. Something viscous and fetid lands on the uneven terrain in a heavy splat and the wolf-like creature emits a deep purr of satisfaction.

The wound on your foot has already begun to fester, outpacing the realm of possibility. You realize then that this creature can smell the injury and that it's out for more than your blood. Your desire to conquer the inevitable slips into adrenaline and before you can parse your next move, you've turned back around in the direction you came from. You run until the breath in your lungs feels like ice and every muscle in your body is on fire. Tree branches that didn't obstruct your path earlier take on the semblance of blades that slice through your skin with ease.

The glutinous ink that falls from the sky burns your skin and stings your eyes. You can hear thunder in the scrim of the night but it doesn't belong to the celestial fear, it belongs to the creature behind you. Its breath is hot against your damp flesh and you know that it could easily drive you into the metaphorical trap it's laid for you. It's playing you like the underdog, baiting you into a game of cat and mouse, or more appropriately, the butcher and the lamb.

It's a bullet in a flock of doves, shrapnel grazing the wing of the weakest. It lunges forward and closes its teeth around the meat of your arm. It drives you down to the ground, knocking the breath from your lungs. Its heavy paws, or perhaps hooves, stand firm against your back. You can taste the rot and the clay of the loam as it fills your mouth. The creature digs its claws into your skin, carving holes into your flesh and hollowing out your pores. You can smell the blood and the sweat on your skin but the unsavory aroma is quickly replaced by the stench of the foul creature's saliva. Its tongue is a coarse and sodden mass, matted with the gore of a cloyed palate.

The creature noses your hair and your attention is bifurcated, torn between the threat of the beast's proximity and the extreme pain lancing through your arm. You move in an attempt to throw off its weight but it doesn't budge, doesn't show any sign of awareness as it continues to get soused on your plasma and perspiration. You claw at the dirt and close your eyes against the venomous deluge, unaware of the tears streaming down your soiled cheeks.

The creature shifts and its claws dig deeper, plunging right down to your spine to render you immobile. You can feel its teeth dragging across your skin, teasing you in the worst way possible. It licks its chops and you feel slaver run from its jaw and spill over the curve of your shoulder. You'd cringe if you still had the capability but you're paralyzed, as useless in the dirt as the compost of muck and mold beneath you.

You wait for the bite but you can only hear the unfamiliar sound of something being torn—like a piece of fabric being slowly ripped apart. You crack open your eyes but your vision is blurry and when you try to blink the world into focus, blood runs down your face and into your eyes. It becomes clear then, that what you're hearing is the sound of your scalp being torn away from your skull. The pain is too much for you to bear and you start to lose consciousness as the beast begins to rend you to pieces.

* * *

You sit bolt upright in bed and gasp for breath, hands clutching at the sheets for something to hold on to. You close your eyes and try to calm your breathing but the din of your nightmare still sounds so real. You're shaking so badly that your body aches, and you're so drenched in sweat that the thin weave of your tank top is stuck to your skin. You inhale a deep breath that stutters in your throat and nearly choke on it when your phone rings.

You glance around the room for your phone before remembering that you tucked it beneath your pillow. You retrieve it with trembling fingers and read Nash's name on the screen. It takes you several attempts to answer the call and your voice is as shaky as your knees when you finally speak.

“H-hello?” you manage, attempting to moisten your dry lips with your tongue.

“Hey. You okay?” Nash asks, his voice cool and steady and everything you wish you were right now.

“Yeah. I'm just a bit out of it.” You run a hand down your face and grimace at the way your palm sticks to your skin. “What's up?”

“I want you to come over to my place. I'm about done here, so I'll be leaving in...about ten to pick you up.” Nash pauses and you can hear Jason say something you can't quite make out in the background. “Fuck off, asshole,” Nash says to him, laughing. “So be ready, 'kay?” he says, turning the conversation back to you.

“Now?” you ask, voice lilting on a tone of surprise. “What time is it?” The question is senseless considering you could easily check your phone but the scraps of rationality haven't quite returned to you yet.

“It's only ten o'clock,” Nash answers, his tone creeping into skepticism. “Wait a minute, don't tell me you were already asleep, grandma.”

“Shut up,” is your response, though it's mostly laughter.

Nash huffs a breath of unforced amusement—your laughter has always been contagious. “Jesus, girl, I need to get you out more. I wouldn't have called if I'd known that you were already asleep.” You can hear another voice, possibly Nick's, followed by a dull thud. “Anyway, I've got the bike so dress warm and wear pants. Panties are optional though.”

You emit a groan of irritation but you're smiling. “I need to take a shower. Do you have the key to get in? I don't want to leave the door unlocked. That guy–” You cut yourself off immediately and kick yourself in the ass for not paying closer attention to your words.

“The one down the hall?” All of the amusement in Nash's tone has been replaced by tension and you know that he's already seeing red.

You exhale a sigh and concede. The cat's already out of the bag and it's too late to call it back. “Yeah. He hasn't done anything but he's just...I don't know. He weirds me out.” You slide out of bed and into the slippers Nash got you last Christmas. “Please don't do anything. I'm already walking a fine line with the landlord thanks to you.”

Nash huffs another breath of laughter and you don't know if you're more irritated by the fact that he's not taking this seriously or that you're not as angry as you should be. “Fine. I'll keep out of it this time but if I get wind that he's anything like the last guy, I won't hesitate to put him in his place.”

“And who is the source of this _wind_?I'd like to know who keeps feeding you information.” You step into the bathroom and flick on the light. “They didn't exactly get the story right last time and now that poor guy is terrified of you.”

“He should be,” Nash says, sounding way too pleased with himself. “'Sides, it's not my fault that he couldn't hold his own, and let's be honest, I could have done him in much worse.”

You can hear the flick of a lighter and the slow drag of inhalation through the speaker as you slip out of your top. “Could your ego get any bigger? You need to make some room for empathy. I don't think you have a sympathetic bone in your body.”

Nash exhales. “I only have sympathy for the bones in your body, baby.” You can almost hear the twitch of his lips and feel the angle of his smirk. “How are those bruises healing, anyway?”

You set the phone down on the vanity and look in the mirror. “They're healing. Some are further along than others.” You pause for a brief moment and frown at your reflection. “Hey! Don't change the subject.”

“I'm moving our conversation forward. There's a difference.” Nash takes another drag of his cigarette. “All right. I'm gonna head out. To answer your question, I have the key so take your time in the shower. It sounds like I have some work to do.”

You stare at the image looking back at you and note how tired you look. “Is this because of what I said? Are you going to mark me up some more so he doesn't want me?”

“Fuck him. I'm going to mark you because I want you to wear my bruises.” There's a brief rustle of fabric on the line as Nash presumably stubs out his cigarette. “I know you're not complaining,” he insinuates. “Last time we had rough sex, you came three times and still wanted more.”

“I didn't say,” you hesitate and shake your head, grinning. “You know what, I'll see you soon, blondie.”

“See you soon, babydoll,” you hear Nash say before you end the call. The epithet alone is enough to spark heat in your veins but the deep timbre of his tone burns you from the inside out.

You refuse to devote any more time to your reflection and shuck the rest of your clothes. You turn on the shower and wait for the water to warm, a shiver winding tight around your spine. The sound of water simulates the rain in your nightmare and sends bile up the back of your throat. You swallow thickly and make a pained expression, the bitter acid like rancid orange juice.

You've been in a relationship with Nash long enough that taking showers with him have become commonplace, but you have no interest in greeting him smelling like an overworked athlete. You wash your hair, cringing at the way your nails feel against your scalp. You try to focus on the task at hand and tell yourself that it was only a figment of your imagination, albeit a terrible one. It works long enough that you're able to scrub the sweat from your skin but when Nash enters the shower you shriek in surprise.

“Fuck!” Nash shouts in alarm. He steps back and lowers the arms that were reaching for your waist. “Didn't you hear me come in?”

“Does it look like I heard you come in?” you ask breathlessly and hold a hand over the rapid thrum of your heart.

“No, but shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Nash runs a hand down his face, smearing water droplets into his skin. “What's got you on high alert?”

You think about telling him but decide that now isn't the right time. You draw your hand away from your chest and place it on Nash's hip, closing the distance between you. “I guess I'm just jumpy.”

“I think that's an understatement,” Nash says, smiling. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in flush against his chest. He presses his nose in against your wet hair and inhales shamelessly, his calloused hands moving down your back to rest on the swell of your ass. “I can feel your heartbeat through your tits. Are you sure you're okay?”

You nod and look up at him through the droplets resting on your lashes. The charcoal patterns spilling down his skin glisten and you press a kiss to the ink above his heart. “I'm fine. I am happy to see you though.”

“Could have fooled me,” Nash tells you, running a hand through his half-damp strands. He presses himself closer to your body, his fingers digging in against the give of your skin. He ducks his head and fits his lips to the shape of your own, his tongue tracing the bottom line of your mouth. He spins you around and lets the water beat down on the top of his head. When he breaks the kiss, you don't know if it's the temperature of the water or the passion that Nash is infusing you with that's making you feel feverish.

You grab a bottle of shampoo and squirt some of the pearly liquid into your palm as Nash begins to lay a trail of kisses along the smooth column of your throat. It's not easy to concentrate, especially when he tugs a section of clean skin between his teeth to suck the sensitive tissue into a fresh bruise. Still, you manage to wash his hair without too much trouble—if you don't count the uncomfortable sensation building between your thighs.

“Nash,” you whisper, involuntarily tilting your head back to allow him better access. “You need to rinse.”

The cool edges of Nash's teeth graze the delicate curve of your shoulder and you shudder. He drags the flat of his tongue up your neck and drinks the water on your skin like he's been lost in the desert looking for rain. He moves one hand down the curve of a bruised globe and fits it in sideways between your thighs. You gasp as his long fingers glance your entrance, teasing and seeking.

“Nash,” you repeat, gasping. “You're going to get soap in your eyes.” You undulate your hips and bite down on your bottom lip when the tip of his index finger enters you briefly.

“Is that really what you're worried about right now?” Nash asks, a tilted smirk overtaking the soft bow of his mouth. He draws his hand away from your incipient arousal and angles his head back under the spray. He runs his hands through his hair and you can't help but track the tiny bubbles that race down his sculpted chest. You follow them with your fingers, over his nipples, and down to the thin line of pale hair that leads straight to the jut of his cock.

“I would hate for you to lose focus during such a crucial moment,” you say, your voice riding the velvet edge of seduction. You gently drag your fingertips over the hard line of his cock, relishing the way it twitches in response to your touch.

Nash smiles and opens his eyes, his sunny strands finally sans shampoo. “You know you can't win at this game.” He curls his fingers around your wrist and tugs your hand closer to his stiff arousal. “You always start strong but the second I return the favor you fall apart in my hands, or should I say, on my fingers?”

You feel heat blossom into color on your cheeks but you fight to keep your composure. “I was hoping that maybe I could fall apart on your cock.” You give his erection a firm squeeze and watch Nash's eyelashes flutter as he fights to keep his eyes open. “Unless you're not interested...” you trail off in mock innocence.

“Tch. When have you ever known me to turn down opulence?” He tightens his grip on your wrist and bodily spins you around. You raise your arms and catch your weight on your palms, hands slipping on the shower wall in front of you. “I happen to have a penchant for luxury and your pussy is gold.”

“That was bad, even for you,” you tell him, laughing. “You know, for someone who walks around like he's second to none, you can be so cheesy sometimes.”

“Yeah but you love it,” he purrs and fits his hand back between your wet thighs. He drags his fingertips over your entrance before sliding a single digit into your sex. He crooks his finger in a way that makes your shudder and wastes no time fitting in a second digit alongside the first. He works you open, moving his fingers with all the enthusiasm of a maestro.

“That's not at all the point,” you manage, words cut by uneven breath.

You carefully widen your stance and focus on the watery lines your fingers have created on the slick tile. Nash reads the motion and pushes his touch deeper, knowing that you're letting yourself be taken for granted as much as he's taking your breath away. He twists his wrist and the pads of his fingers brush against a wall of spongy tissue that does just that; you try to gasp yourself into breathing but you're choking on steam and getting drunk on pleasure.

“Are you ready to be filled up, stretched open on my cock like the little cockslut you are?” You can tell Nash has moved by the way the water meets your ears, an audible shift of where the spray lands. Then comes his breath against the back of your neck, cool against your damp skin. He laughs when your shiver and steals away the rapture of his ministrations. “If the way you feel on my skin is anything to go by, I'd say you've been ready for a while.”

You open your mouth to respond but when the hard jut of his cock brushes your clit you bite down your lip instead. You flex your fingers and wish there was something you could hold on to other than the flat resistance in front of you.

“I'm not hearing any concession,” Nash lilts, knowing too well that you're a slave to his touch. He's never had to work hard to get you to fall at his feet—sometimes quite literally. Still and all, he continues to play these games for the sake of his own entertainment.

“Since when have you cared about consent?” you ask, silently begging for Nash to fuck the imminent cold out of your bones. “You know full well that I want you to fuck me.”

Nash chuckles, the sound low and resonant in his chest. “I just wanted to hear it from your mouth.” Nash grips the base of his member and guides the tip of his cock into your waiting arousal. One hand goes tight on your hip and the other rests against your cheek as he slides his fingers over your lips and into your mouth. “If you can't comply, then you'll have to improvise. Convince me to fuck you by means other than speech.”

You moan and drive yourself back on Nash's cock, trying to take more of his length into your wet heat. You close your lips around his fingers and take them as deep into your mouth as physically possible. You close your eyes and concentrate on your movements, divided between your lips, tongue, teeth, and the undulation of your hips. You curl your tongue around his long digits and suck the salt and the heat right from his skin as you work yourself down on his thick cock. Nash thrusts forward ever-so-slightly, just enough to tease and you whimper, the sound breaking into fragments around his fingers.

Nash acts like an intoxicant and you're growing dizzier on his affections by the second. You feel weak and strung out across the stars that dance across the shadows swamping your vision. You nip at his skin and rock back in an attempt to secure leverage on his cock, but Nash digs his nails in against the curve of your hip and stills your motion.

“Are you ready to talk?” he asks huskily, and you know that he wants this just as much as you do. He's just better at practicing control, or perhaps he's just better at stealing yours.

You nod your head in agreement and Nash immediately withdraws his fingers from your mouth. Saliva spills over your bottom lip and down your chin but you don't bother wiping it away. You ease the tension in your jaw and just when you're ready to speak, Nash says, “Tell me that you're Daddy's little cockslut. Tell me that you'll be a good girl and I might fuck you so good that you'll be feeling me inside of you for days.”

You emit a whine that spreads into a groan and shift your hips in a way that spells adjustment rather than desperation. It doesn't get by Nash, however, and he's bringing a firm hand down against your ass. You cry out and feel your body tighten, the muscles hugging Nash's cock no exception. He groans and you know that he's felt it, and when he fits his hand in your tangled strands, you think now is your only chance to aim for what you want.

“I'll be a good girl,” you blurt, the trill of anticipation taking the octave of your usual tone higher. “I want you to fuck me like the dirty little cockslut I am. I want to feel Daddy's cock inside of me, filling me up until I can't bear it anymore. Please,” you whine, pressing for the fulfillment of your words.

“Do you promise?” Nash rasps, canting his hips to push his cock an inch deeper.

“I promise,” you say, almost panting.

“Good girl,” Nash praises, and with that, he slams himself home, driving you forward and into the wall. The hand in your hair turns to a fist and keeps your head from connecting with the tile. His cock is fully seated inside of you and each measured thrust brings you closer to the edge. You feel like you're walking across a tightrope with no protective gear, no promise of a safe landing. You're riding high and with each rough drag of his cock, you're planning for the plunge, the fall that will carry you into the deep.

Your energy is high and the light is getting brighter. Nash's fingers are planting future bruises on your hip and as inevitably as the night chases the sun, you're trading your grip for surrender. It's too much at once, a rush of stimulation that compromises your ability to maintain any semblance of balance. You're losing to gravity and when you realize that there's never been any point in resistance, you let Nash take you for everything you're worth.

Nash drives into you like he's in a fight for survival and the uneven hitch of his breathing is indication enough that he's just as close to falling as you are. He rolls his hips and curses like the words leaving his mouth are sacred in existence. He growls deep in his chest and a note of something honeyed spills up the dark of his throat. His fingers are losing traction, sliding across your hip, and the makeshift fist in your hair turns loose.

Nash bows his head and closes his teeth on the space just below the slight jut of your vertebrae. You pin your focus on the point of contact and the dull ache that climbs the line of your neck. You're shaking and coming apart at the seams and when Nash spills himself to completion, you chase the waves of his release into the dark tide.

It takes you a moment to calm your breathing and every grain of your remaining strength to keep yourself upright. You lend some of your weight to the wall but Nash is quick to offer you support. He wraps his arms around your waist and plants a kiss on the nape of your neck as if the gentle caress is a remedy for the bite, visible in the indentations he left on your skin.

You lean back into the hard lines of Nash's chest and let him be the water that bathes you clean. His fingers are no longer searching but mindful, and when you feel his release drip down the insides of your thighs, you can't help but blush. Nash is your anchor, and at times like this, he is the only thing that keeps you tethered to the grounds of security.

Which is why you nearly go to pieces when he tells you, later, that he's traveling out of the country for a basketball tournament.

* * *

Six days have passed since Nash left for Europe and each night that's followed has gotten increasingly worse. The nightmares have become more vivid, more violent, and what started with trembling limbs has evolved into full-bodied shudders and sweat-soaked sheets.

You've been chasing sleep but it's a losing game. You can't escape from the din of your thoughts or the horror that outstrips your ability to separate reality from fantasy. It seems that for each time you try, you only slip deeper into the murky waters of bloodcurdling hallucination. You feel like marionettist whose puppets have learned how to pull their strings.

You call Nash as much as you're comfortable but you're afraid of crossing some unseen boundary between you. You can hear him in the back of your mind, his voice low and dangerous, chiding you for worrying over the vague and insubstantial. Yet, despite his immaterial inflection, you can't bring yourself to call him every time you wake up with your hands curled into shaky fists and your heart breaking through the cages of your chest.

He calls you on the day he's due to come home and tells you that his flight has been delayed. You try not to choke on the devastation that flows through your veins like sloe gin; it's not sweet or plummy, it's rancid and bitter and it turns your blood cold. You feel like your heart has beat itself black and blue and when you tell Nash that you're okay for what feels like the umpteenth time, you're clutching at the frayed ends of your control.

You try to occupy yourself with the types of things normal people do with their mornings but your coffee is cold and the sun refuses to leave its dense bed of clouds. You burn your breakfast but it doesn't matter because everything has tasted the same since Nash left: flavorless and watered-down. You heave a heavy sigh and toss the uneaten contents into the trash. You wash the dishes in the sink and try to tidy up your place instead but you're low on energy and even the simplest of tasks feels like you're working yourself to the bone.

You curl up on the couch and scroll through the wall of messages you've received from Nash. It kills a few minutes at best but it's not enough to fend off your fatigue, and for as much as you'd hoped it would lend you a sense of peace, it's not the same as having Nash by your side. You bite down on the disappointment that spreads itself between your teeth and tell yourself that it is what it is. Nash isn't here and he isn't going to be for a while longer.

Your eyes are growing heavy and the last thing you want to do is fall asleep now. The night already owns the keys to your consciousness, you're not about to hand suspension over to the day too. You force yourself upright and yawn so wide it feels like your jaw is coming unhinged. It takes more effort than it should to rise from the couch but you decide that the best thing for you to do is to take a walk outside, away from the monster that's manifested itself in the shape of your residence.

To your surprise, being outside is the unvarnished breath of fresh air that you needed. It offers up the distraction that you've been begging for, and you're able to fritter your afternoon away without much effort at all.

When you arrive back at your apartment, you stand on the sidewalk and stare at its construction. A sense of foreboding comes over you and you begin to feel your heart rate increase. The cold windows are staring back at you and the front entrance, set just a little off-center, lies in wait for your entry. The thin pillars that hold up the awning stretch like long bones and the building's foundation wears a thin layer of moss like flesh. The entire structure of the community dwelling presents itself as a trap, and you're just a helpless rabbit who allows herself to be driven into the snare.

You reluctantly walk up the path that leads to the entrance and try to focus on something other than the harrying feeling that you're entering the belly of the beast. Once inside, you can't help but notice the wires that spread like veins throughout the framework. It's not warm enough outside to go without heat, and the furnace that rattles into functioning breathes life into the closed space. You know that you're imagining things, that the lack of sleep is making you overthink things. But when you hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall in the same rhythm as your heartbeat, you can't shake the feeling that the inhabitants of the apartment, yourself included, are the soul of the building and without life, it would merely crumble and die.

You finally enter your apartment, weak-kneed and sluggish. You barely make it into your bedroom before you flop down on your bed, too tired to strip out of your street clothes. You reach out and close your fingers on the black and green jersey that reads number four and tug it toward you. You ball it into a makeshift pillow and rest your head on it, breathing in Nash's scent and letting it comfort you.

You tumble into the arms of slumber and you stay asleep longer than you've been able to in the previous days—and while it should elate you to have finally caught some z's, they feel like shards of glass in your hands.

When you wake, your body aches and cold sweat is sticking to your skin like damnation itself. You fumble for the light by your bed and turn it on with trembling fingers. Your eyes narrow and start to close reflexively due to the sudden contrast but you let the glow burn them instead. Your heart is sprinting in your chest like a horse running circles around an infinite track, but something is wrong, and if your pulse bears equine countenance than it's got a broken leg.

You manage to pull yourself up to the head of the bed despite the tremor in your limbs and the breath catching in your lungs. The chills that shook your body before have turned over to heat, making you feel feverish and ill. You feel like you've been making deals with the devil and dancing too close to the fire—you feel like you already have one foot in the grave.

It doesn't help that you just woke from another nightmare, another transient sleep that carried you deep down to the dark and doleful depths of hell. The demons who greeted you were unlike those whose characters are belied in books and seen sugar-coated in strains of entertainment. They were grotesque and vicious, and your defeat was a foregone conclusion as soon as the soulless creatures closed in on you.

You clutch the soft weave of Nash's jersey to your chest and hiccup, still unnerved and wracked with fear as tears stream down your face. You pull your knees in close to your chest in an attempt to make yourself as small as possible.

When Nash enters the room you don't hear the scream that tears up your throat because you're still stuck in the quagmire of unbalanced intuition. You can make out the concern on his face in the way his features go soft. He makes his way toward the head of the bed and you blink several times to ascertain his presence. When he doesn't fade away you nearly leap into his arms. He stumbles backward and laughs, but the sound of it is uneasy and you know that he's already seen too much to put up a front.

Your hand is still clutching the soft-weave of his jersey when you drape your arms around his neck. You relax when he embraces you, his arms strong and solid when he pulls you tight against his chest. He holds you for a long moment and you can feel his shirt growing damp from your tears. You draw back away from him and slant your gaze to the opposite side of the room but you can feel him staring at you.

Nash slides the rough pads of his thumbs across your cheeks in tandem, collecting the salty rivulets of your distress on his skin. He clears his throat before he takes your shoulders in his hands, and you know that he's going to speak but you're not ready for it.

“What's going on with you? I've been getting calls from you at three in the morning. I might not always be up to speed on specifics, but when I considered the eight-hour time difference, I realized that something wasn't right. You've been distracted every time we talk and now I know that I wasn't imagining things last night when I heard something change in your tone. I thought you sounded scared but you told me that you weren't sleeping well without me so I didn't think much about it. But obviously something's been going on. What is it?” Nash massages your shoulders with his thumbs in a gesture meant to comfort but it only makes you feel ill at ease.

“I meant what I said,” you begin, struggling to keep an even tone. “I just have a hard time sleeping without you. I didn't want to go into detail because I didn't want you to think that I couldn't handle being on my own.” You sniffle once and hope that Nash doesn't notice how deep the circles around your eyes truly go.

“That's not it,” Nash says, shaking his head. “I know you better than that. Now that I think about it, you wouldn't spend the night at my place when we first started dating. I can barely get you over there now. This doesn't have anything to do with missing me. I believe that you did, but I don't believe that that's the problem here. You look half-dead. That's not normal.” Nash lifts his hand and cups your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look at him directly. “You haven't been sleeping, have you?”

You swallow thickly and try to shake your head but Nash's grip is too firm. You lower your gaze and stare at the black ink that slithers out from beneath his shirt and glides up his neck like a snake. “I haven't gotten that much sleep but I'm restless when you're not around. I worry about you and the trouble you get up to when you're away,” you tell him, aiming for humor but missing the mark.

Nash laughs and you can smell coffee and cigarettes on his breath. “That's not gonna fly with me, babydoll.” He slides his knuckles across the damp contour of your cheek and into the fall of your hair. “Do you honestly think that I haven't noticed how unsettled you are when you sleep? Shit, I've woken up with bruises from all of your tossing and turning.”

“But they're better when I'm with you,” you blurt, wishing you could call the confession back as soon as it leaves your mouth.

“What's better?” Nash asks, his expression turning to arrogance that speaks for his success.

You clench your jaw and wonder if you can still piece together the fragments of your charade but decide that there's little use in trying. Nash is too perceptive, too stubborn, and he won't back down until the truth is in his hands.

“The nightmares,” you answer, involuntarily tilting your head to nuzzle his hand. It's warm and reassuring and it offers you the promise of a new day.

“I thought so,” Nash says. He sounds guilty and you wish you could see into his mind as easily as he sees into yours, however, he's as complicated as they come and just as full of surprises. “I didn't know that they were so bad. I assumed–“

At that moment, a loud yelp sounds from the down the hall and you jolt as if you've been shocked. You look at Nash but another high-pitched cry calls for your attention. You step away from the blond with a look of curiosity and start toward the short hallway that leads out into the living room.

You can feel Nash's scrutiny against your back but you continue toward a medium-size crate from which a small puppy is seemingly throwing a tantrum.

“A woman was giving a litter of puppies away just outside the terminal. I had Jason go buy the crate while I picked this little shit out. She's a feisty thing. I'm surprised she waited this long to let us have it. You know how women are when they're not the center of attention though.”

You swat Nash on the arm but you can't hide the smile that's taking over the shape of your lips. You can feel happiness filling you up, swelling in your chest like a balloon, and it's the greatest state of relief you've felt in days.

Nash crouches down and squeezes the metal fastener on the crate. He opens the chrome door and the puppy darts out of the cage, tail wagging hard and fast.

“I wanted to give you some company for when I'm gone. I know we didn't talk about it and it was a bit off the cuff for me to assume that you'd want to take care of her but–”

“I love her,” you tell him, wiping away the tears that have started to dry from the corners of your eyes. “I'll take care of her.” You kneel next to Nash, joints pressing down against the hard resistance of the floor. “What kind of dog is she?”

“Shibu Inu,” Nash tells you, scratching behind the puppy's ears as she tries to decide which of you looks more appealing. When the decision becomes too much, she flops down in the space between you and rolls over onto her back, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. “She's a purebred, 'least, that's what Madam Mim told me.”

“Be nice,” you chide, laughing. “I wouldn't have this gift if not for her.” You scratch the puppy's exposed belly and smile, too imbued with joy by to notice the way Nash is staring at you. When you finally lift your head and look at him, you can feel heat creep into your cheeks. “What?” you ask, becoming sheepish.

“I just never thought I'd fall for anyone but here you are.” He presses his hands against his knees and pushes himself up away from the floor. “I have a couple of the guys running errands. They're gonna get all the shit she needs, food, bowls, a collar and leash” –Nash waves his hand dismissively– “you know, all that important shit.”

You look up at Nash and it's like looking into the sun. You realize that the feeling that moved through you when you were greeted with wet kisses and tiny nips is the same emotion you feel for Nash, and that you're wholly and irrevocably in love with him.

You reach out toward the blond and he takes you by the hand to guide you back to your feet. “Thank you,” you tell him in earnest. “For everything. I never realized how much I need you in my life. Without you, I–” You trail off and Nash throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. You can smell his favorite cologne and the sensual musk and vanilla notes of his deodorant. It reminds you of home and you immediately curl into the warmth emanating from his body.

“I'm not one to speak about my feelings but I understand what you're trying to say because I feel the same way. Just, maybe with a lot more vulgar undertones and perverse implications.” Nash presses a firm kiss to the top of your head and you can feel his mouth curve on a smile. “I'm happy that you like her but you better not pay her more attention than me. I have a bad habit of getting jealous.”

“As if I didn't already know that,” you tell him, your voice muted by the cotton pressed against your face. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face deeper in his shirt.

Nash squeezes you in a consoling gesture but he's pulling away from you too soon. You moan in the vein of complaint and Nash laughs.

“She's chewing on one of your shoes,” he tells you, already making his way across the room to where the puppy is happily gnawing on your laces. Nash bends over to retrieve your sneaker but she beats him to the punch and runs out of the room with it, not quite understanding the full use of her stubby legs and tripping over the laces as she goes.

“Does this mean that she's our first child?” you ask him, biting back a smile.

“Don't push it,” Nash warns, but he's smiling too. He takes two steps in the direction of your room before halting. He turns and looks at you, a mischievous gleam sparkling in his bright gaze. “The one who fails to get the shoe back gives the other head?”

You smile but the happy expression promptly breaks into laughter. “I'm game.”

You dash from the room, Nash on your heels and adrenaline coursing through your veins.

What wouldn't leave your subconscious for nearly a week is now a thing of the past and the demons that haunted your dreams have died, interchanged by the one thing that gives you life.

_Hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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